


Gloria

by greygerbil



Category: Stanton & Barling - E.M. Powell
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 10:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: Stanton wants to hear Barling sing; Barling offers to sing one song.





	Gloria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



Barling hummed.

He didn’t do it where people might hear him, of course, or at least so he thought. However, he underestimated how well Stanton could fake being asleep. It was an important skill to have when you regularly spent time in Barling’s bed, for he would not hesitate to make Stanton get up with copious references to his sloth when he was just lazing about after a good tumble or on a late Sunday morning.

Quite by accident, however, he’d found out that Barling did not have the heart to actually wake him up when he thought him properly asleep and there was no immediate reason they had to rise, at least not before the church bells hadn’t struck ten. Sometimes, Stanton even caught him adjusting the blanket if it had slipped too far down, exposing Stanton to the chilly spring air, and once or twice he’d gently brushed his fingers through Stanton’s hair. And he hummed, very quietly, as he sat at his desk bent over scrolls or his wax tablet.

Humming wasn’t really like singing, but suddenly Stanton could imagine Barling doing that, too. He’d believed his story, of course. Barling had had no reason to lie to him. But it had still been impossible to draw before his mind’s eye the picture of Barling singing happily to a crowd – Barling singing at all. Music and song did not seem to fit into a world so full of of dry paper and eternal lists of laws.

Even when Barling was only humming, his voice already had a clear and full timbre, and he could stick perfectly to any chosen melody even while he was doing something entirely different. Sometimes he would hum some old, well-known folk song and end up putting little flourishes on it that made the tune even prettier. Stanton could have listened to him forever if it hadn’t piqued his curiosity about his actual singing so much. However, he did not dare ask for a demonstration. Barling still looked like someone was twisting a knife in his flesh whenever he mentioned some detail pertaining to Paris and in the end, Stanton rather wanted to spend the time they had only for themselves in a way that made Barling smile.

-

The first time he heard Barling sing they were in a tiny wooden church where light streamed through the open doors onto the sparse congregation.

They had been sent to investigate a series of robberies in a small village two days’ ride out of London and to get a closer look at the locals as well as find the approval of the priest, Barling and Stanton had decided to join the villagers for mass.

The priest was plainly the community leader despite the existence of a tired-looking, old lord, as both Barling and Stanton had agreed the moment they were out of their first meeting with the two. After a fiery sermon, he led a plainchant, _Gloria in excelsis Deo_ , and since quite a few eyes were on Stanton and Barling and they had no need to invite mistrust, it was best to join in.

Barling sang quietly and while looking down at his folded hands, attempting to stifle his voice and hide it in the general buzz of people mumbling trough Latin words they knew by ear only. Stanton figured he was the one person who could hear Barling at all, and he resorted to simply mouthing the chant just to catch more of it. It was a beautiful sound, not too dark to hit the higher notes, but dipping low without losing its tone when needed, appropriately sombre for the occasion. The song was over much too quickly.

When they left the church ambling after the crowd into a bright May day, Barling asked, as he often did: “Did you notice anything?”

“Not much. The miller’s son we met wasn’t with his family, but he didn’t seem to be talking to anyone else, either. He just stood by the door all by himself.”

“You didn’t like him from the start.”

“No,” Stanton admitted with a smile.

He hadn’t told Barling yet, but it didn’t surprise him he’d picked up on it. The miller’s son had been needlessly rude to Barling while being asked perfectly innocent questions, and had watched them the whole way they went down the town road like he expected them to break into a house themselves.

“A bad feeling is no reason to convict someone,” Barling reminded him.

“But it’s a good reason to keep an eye on him for now, since we don’t have anyone else to watch, anyway.”

“If you must. But don’t let it cloud your judgement. It is much too early to stick to one idea only.”

Stanton shrugged. His feelings weren’t foolproof, of course, but he knew well enough by now that his instinct was often based on small inconsistencies he’d noticed and had just not sorted properly yet – and Barling knew it as well, which was why he didn’t shut him down the way he used to.

“What if I’m right?” Stanton whispered playfully, when he was sure they were out of earshot of everyone else. “Will you apologise for doubting me? Properly, with a kiss?”

“You would have made a poor tradesman, Stanton. One should think you get enough kisses,” Barling an quietly, looking ahead.

“Not ever. But you’re right, if you’ll even kiss me if I’m wrong… perhaps I should ask you to sing _Gloria_ for me instead,” Stanton said, careful to keep his tone light. He figured if he did not ask now, he never might.

Barling raised a brow.

“You _just_ heard me sing that as well.”

“Not properly. It sounded great, though. I can see how you’ve kept crowds bewitched.”

“I sang for drunks at taverns,” Barling murmured.

“According to you, that describes me much too often...”

Barling couldn’t hide a smile. He fell silent, but when Stanton was already sure Barling had intended to let the topic fade away, he glanced up at him again and added: “Fine. If you are right, I will sing _one_ song.”

-

In the end, they both turned out to be neither wrong nor right. The miller’s son was not involved in the robberies, but he did cover for his best friend, whom he’d rightly suspected was. The technicalities of that result were not yet decided by the time they stopped for the night on their journey back to London.

“It still counts, you know,” Stanton claimed. “He _did_ know something was off.”

They were sharing a small room at the inn. Once they had locked the door behind themselves and taken off their shoes and cloaks, Stanton had pulled Barling down on the bed, leaning back against the wall so he could tug Barling between his legs, sitting chest to back with him, his chin resting on Barling’s shoulder. He’d pushed the discussion off until he could hold him in his arms because he knew them both well enough to realise that in a real debate, where he could not make points by way of kisses and touches, he’d be helplessly overwhelmed. Aelred Barling did not lose contract negotiations.

“Since you are the one who wanted something, you should have made sure the outlines of our agreement were clear,” Barling said, entirely too self-satisfied. “Maybe this should be a lesson to you.”

“No, it shouldn’t be,” Stanton muttered crossly against the side of Barling’s head and kissed his ear, distracted briefly by the feeling of the soft shell against his lips. He pulled at his earlobe with his teeth. Barling allowed him, even leaning his head to the side to grant Stanton better access.

“If justice is not on your side, asking for mercy sometimes helps,” he reminded Stanton in a casual voice.

“You want to hear me beg? I always knew you weren’t so innocent…”

Barling frowned at him, but his attempts to escape Stanton’s embrace at the affront of a dirty joke were half-hearted and eventually he settled back against him.

“You don’t deserve it,” he clarified sternly. “Still, if I sing, I get to decide which song.”

Beaming, Stanton turned Barling’s head to kiss his mouth, and they forgot about singing for a little while.

-

“By the way, am I really going to have to plead for that song?”

They’d been back in London for a week and so far, Barling had not used any opportunity to make good on his promise – and since all they needed, presumably, was a few minutes alone, that surprised Stanton. Had Barling really not wanted to sing, he could have just said so and claimed Stanton had lost their bet; and had he actually disliked the thought so much that it became more than an inconvenience, he likely would have snapped shut the way he always did when Stanton made an improper comment that cut too deeply, which would have made sure he’d set aside all games in favour of keeping Barling’s favour. However, even now, as they sat over supper in Barling’s kitchen, the remark only got Stanton an expression that looked almost bashful.

“No,” Barling said, hesitantly. “I did say I would sing.”

“Then why won’t you?”

Barling, who was sitting in front of a plate of boiled turnips because he had given all the baked fish to Stanton, treated the greyish looking pieces with his eating knife.

“It took me a while to prepare, but – I haven’t sung properly in over a decade. It’s not going to sound as good as you may imagine.”

The fact that Barling had apparently been practicing to impress Stanton had him smiling from ear to ear.

“But you were right when you said I’d already heard you sing – and I liked it,” he argued.

Another piece of turnip was split needlessly into two.

“I had an idea which song to sing you, but I’m not sure it was a good one,” he admitted, finally. “Certainly the song is worse than I remembered it. I think I must have rewritten the better part of it several times over the last week.” He frowned. “But then, perhaps back then I still knew how to write a love song and I only made it worse now trying to produce something too exact and reasonable...”

“You’re going to sing your love song to me?” Stanton asked, staring at him with his mouth open.

Barling put the knife aside.

“No,” he decided. “It’s foolish. I should not offer you something I once made for Richard. I did not mean any disrespect, I just thought since my feelings are just as strong now...”

He looked angry with himself. Stanton dropped his own knife, fish still speared on it, and rounded the table to take Barling’s hand, pulling him to his feet.

“I want to hear it right now,” he said.

“But-”

“It’s your song, not Richard’s.”

Barling had taken it back, after all. Remembering that part of his story still made Stanton wince. How could you degrade another person in such a way when their greatest crime was being earnestly in love with you after you’d taken them to bed? Maybe it was better he did not understand.

But what little Barling had been able to save of his pride then had been wrapped up in that song he’d not allowed Richard to take with him to court another – and he was willing to dedicate it to Stanton now.

Barling hesitated, but finally nodded his head. He wound his arm gently out of Stanton’s grip to leave the room. Moments later, he returned with an old parchment, yellowed but well-kept except for a black burn mark at one corner. As he unfolded it, Stanton saw fresh ink marks next to faded lines.

Barling cleared his throat and took a deep breath. However, his first attempt to start faltered before he’d made a noise. He sat down on the hard wooden bench leaning against the wall, frowning at the first line, which had particularly many variations written next to it.

Stanton took the place by his side and was just about to assure him that he didn’t care which version of the song he’d hear, and that in fact he would be very happy to hear them one after the other, when Barling opened his mouth and started singing.

His voice was soft but clear, brighter than when he’d sung in church, filled with a melancholic sort of animation, all hopeful longing, and as beautiful as anything Stanton had ever heard. Stanton did not know the melody and couldn’t say if Barling had borrowed it from some French song, of course, but somehow he did not think so. The words fit too well with every elation and bounce and twist of the tune to have been grafted onto something else – and they were sweet, first carefully hopeful before growing into true declarations of love, the kind you could not take back and not misinterpret, the kind you had to stand behind once you’d spoken them. The kind someone could throw back in your face and leave you ruined.

Stanton’s heart felt too great for his ribcage. He saw that Barling was nervous in the way his fingers crinkled the page and his gaze kept flicking towards Stanton and then back to the words. Stanton shifted closer and Barling stumbled, catching on the wrong line or one of his corrections, and came to a halt, his face growing pink.

“Don’t stop,” Stanton said, as he wrapped his arm around Barling’s shoulders and pulled him close.

So Barling continued and the uncertainty faded from his voice again as he clung to the words of his song, spreading them out like a beautiful tapestry for Stanton to behold or trample across. He could feel his voice reverberating through his body as he held Barling against his side, or maybe it was just the strings in his chest that Barling plucked with his beautiful voice, playing Stanton with the same ease as any simple instrument.

The song subsided, coming to its actual end. When Barling opened his mouth, Stanton pressed his lips against it, drawing him into a deep and desperate kiss. Barling held on to the front of Stanton’s shirt, hand tight in the fabric.

“Thank you,” Stanton said when they parted.

It was difficult to read Barling’s expression. His face was blank, but the sadness in his eyes was undeniable.

“I wish that I had met you in Paris instead of Richard,” he murmured. “You deserve the trust I gave Richard and I don’t have that anymore.”

Stanton could see him in his head, a younger Barling, his own age, with a love for music and for drink, someone whose company people sought and who didn’t mind sharing it.

“I’m sure I would have liked you in Paris,” Stanton said slowly. “We could have gone to a tavern together – imagine that.” He grinned. “But who knows if I’d fallen in love with you? I imagine you still were enough like yourself that I probably would have. I can’t say, though, because I like you the way you are now.”

Barling smiled thinly.

“I’m going to remind you of that the next time you complain when I try to correct one of your various intolerable habits,” he answered.

Stanton chuckled. He wished Barling could still love him as thoughtlessly and happily as he seemed to have loved Richard; but then, he also wished he could love Barling without imagining himself finding his lifeless body every night when it got too quiet and dark. They had both come to this with scars. Still, when he saw the way Barling looked at him now, the warm affection he could not manage to hide, he knew this was not worse than what they’d had before, just different. In the end, Stanton was convinced that knowing how easily happiness could be crushed only made them appreciate this even more.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he answered as he gathered Barling up in his arms.


End file.
